


north star

by evenmyneck (stopmopingstarthoping)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Reality Show, Alternate Universe - Skating, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Reincarnation, just hints though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:28:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26131171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stopmopingstarthoping/pseuds/evenmyneck
Summary: Sylvain gets knocked out--literally--of a flourishing hockey career in the blink of an eye. Felix loses his skating partner to the next step in her own journey. They both feel lost when they agree to take part in Skating Stars, hoping to win some notoriety and money, but the prize may be something neither one of them expected to find.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 20
Kudos: 79
Collections: Sylvix Big Bang





	1. just one mistake is all it will take (remember me)

**Author's Note:**

> Please check out [ the wonderful art that yin_yoru drew](https://twitter.com/yin_yoru/status/1299231046794465281?s=19) to go with this fic!

Sylvain leaned into a turn, letting his skates pull him across the ice. He pulled his helmet off, letting the crowd recognize his red flow, and gave a grin and a wink to the first couple of people who caught his eye. Unsurprisingly, one of them was a cute brunette with a Lions jersey on, making a kissy face at him. Maybe she’d be outside later.

He flipped a puck over the glass to a kid, stepped over the threshhold, and made his way back to the locker room. Their team doctor met him almost as soon as he came in, looking him over.

“Sheesh, Lin, lay off. I’m  _ fine _ . It’s just warm-ups, for chrissakes.”

The placid, unruffled face of Dr. Hevring continued to examine him. The guy was young— almost as young as Sylvain. Some kind of med school rock star. Anyway. Right now, he was just being annoying. Sylvain tried to brush him off and go grab a drink of water, but he was persistent.

“You’re on watch, Gautier. You know that.” His voice was, as always, studiedly noncommittal, but the underlying warning was clear.

Sylvain pulled his arm out of the doctor’s grasp, a little meanly. “You think I’m gonna get checked in  _ warm-ups _ ? Damn, you must think my teammates really have it in for me.  _ And  _ that they want their best left-winger out of commission for one of the biggest games of the season?”

Linhardt made him sit and shone a light in his eyes anyway, completely unruffled by his protests.

“Any mood swings?”

“No.”

“Nausea?”

“No.”

“Headaches?”

“No.”

“Any changes in—”

Sylvain cut him off. “Come  _ on _ , we went through all this after practice. Nothing has changed! I’m a big, healthy, game-winning boy.”

Linhardt stood back and sighed at him tiredly. “You know I was against this. Letting you return this soon.”

Silent, Sylvain just glared at him.

“I know, all right?” He knew it too well. Almost as well as he knew his own name.

A large, squared-off presence appeared behind Linhardt, and Sylvain suddenly found the laces of his skates to be fascinating.

“Hey, Coach.” Sylvain felt instantly guilty for giving Linhardt a hard time. This had been a decision all of them had made together — the doctor, Coach Jeralt, Sylvain, and the senior Gautier. Always him, of course. Julien cast a long shadow.

One more, and no more. Sylvain knew it. One more and he was done.

Sylvain shoved the heels of his hands into his eyes, remembering the evening that had led to their “decision.”

Julien had insisted they have “a nice dinner at home” to talk over the next steps for Sylvain’s career. Despite Sylvain’s efforts to push him off, he’d finally run out of excuses. And there he sat, unable to enjoy his mother’s special roast, distracted by body parts and clinical terms and the sick feeling he got in his gut every time they talked about his brother.

“Ugh, do you have my  _ scans _ at the dinner table? Gross, Dad.”

Julien just gave him a forbidding look. “There are things we wish we’d done with your brother. Mistakes we made. Forgive me if I correct them now.”

“I’m an adult, okay? I can figure out when I’m able to—”

“You are a  _ Gautier. _ ”

His mother had jumped up from the table and stalked into the kitchen, an excitedly angry stream of Faerghan trailing behind her.

“Leave it, Marette.” Julien held up one hand. He opened the folder and started going through the medical documents while they ate.

The conversation had, actually, not gone at all how Sylvain had expected. His parents were more concerned with helping Sylvain avoid Miklan’s fate than in perpetuating the Gautier hockey legacy. To his surprise.

“You’re too rash with your own body. Always have been.” His mother’s expressive hands darted around her face as she spoke.

“I’m protecting Dimitri. He’s the star. He’s on track to break the goal scoring—”

“He can protect himself. And the fighting— there can’t be any more of that. The league is moving away from that style of play, anyway. Fortunately you’re talented enough to be more than just an enforcer. More than just a thug.”

_ Not like Miklan. _

The unspoken words drifted between them.

Julien cleared his throat. “You’re not a first-line winger for nothing.”

Sylvain leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms, leveling a sharp look across the table. “Damn right.” He hadn’t busted his ass all through mites, youth hockey, and juniors, proving at every turn that he wasn’t just a faded copy of his father or his brother, to have his dad overlook all that. Hell, in the five years Sylvain had been pro, he’d been contributing. He hadn’t been a standout first-round draft pick like Dimitri, but few people were. He was solid support, on the first line more often than not, and it angered him to have Julien acknowledge it only in the context of trying to shut him down.

_ Welcome to Conand Arena! Tonight’s starting lineup is sponsored by Faerghus National Bank, and here are your Lions starters! _

The local singer started the last stanza of the national anthem with a flourish, and Sylvain stared up at the pennants. The smell of the ice filled his nose, and he wondered if they’d add another division title this year. Maybe even a championship. It had been too long since the loyal Fhirdiad crowd saw their Lions take it all. The bright colors of the jerseys stood out in sharp contrasts: light blue and bright red for the Lions; clean white away uniforms with purple accents for the visiting Wolves.

He couldn’t see them, but he could feel the heavy weight of the embroidered red letters that spanned his back. Sylvain wasn’t his dad, or his brother, but he loved this game. You didn’t spend hours grinding away at something you hated. Well,  _ he _ wouldn’t. Sylvain never got over the pre-game thrill, and the cheers of the crowd filled him with excitement as he tapped his stick against the ice. Getting to play a game for a living? A fast, physical, breathtaking game that made him feel more alive than anything ever had?

_ Fhirdiad! Make some noise for your Liooooons! _

_ Hell yeah. _ Sylvain pulled on his helmet and got into position for the faceoff. One of the opposing players talked some shit from his position opposite Sylvain on the circle, and he jerked his chin up and chirped right back, grinning the whole time.

“Haha yeah buddy, why don’t you go ahead and pick which hand I beat the fuck out of you with?”

Damn, it felt good to be on the ice. Sylvain pushed off hard and caught a pass, shifting his weight quickly to evade his opponent. He had a dirty fucking dangle and he wasn’t afraid to use it. Sylvain wanted to laugh, or talk more trash, but he was too busy making sure Dimitri was in position. Perfect. Not ten minutes in, and they were off to a slamming start. He skated over to join the hail of congratulatory gloves knocking against Dima’s helmet.

_ Goal from Dimitri Blaiddyd, number sixty-two! Assist from Sylvain Gautier, number forty-three! _

Sylvain listened to this season’s goal song blast, distorted, through the stadium speakers, and his name and number popped up on the monitor for the assist, followed by Dima’s. The crowd hollered, and his shift change came almost too fast.

From the bench, Berglie thumped his stick against the boards. “Sick fucking dekes, Goatie,” he hollered before cupping his hands around his mouth to register a comment with one of the Wolves skating by.

"My left nut dangles better than you!"

Sylvain laughed and slung his leg over the boards as Kirsey, Berglie’s co-defenseman and attached to him at the hip, chimed in. "I've seen better hands on a digital clock, ya plug."

The opposing player skated by and shot back "I've heard better chirps from a dead bird!" which made Berglie and Kirsey cackle in appreciation.

One shift followed another, and Sylvain was scrambling to get back on the ice as soon as he caught his breath every time. Even the cheesy organ music was a familiar welcome. This season was more precious than usual, he figured, since he almost didn’t get it.

He watched the Wolves scramble one down the ice and looked to check position, but he didn’t need to. Dedue Molinaro, defenseman supreme, was on it as always. Sylvain chased after Dedue’s filthy pass: damn, it was perfect, anticipating Sylvain’s pace down the ice plus a little extra, keeping him running. He loved playing with these guys, loved their rhythm and vibe together, and the air burned in his lungs as he dug in and pushed.

As he caught the pass and spun to look for a teammate, the corner of Sylvain’s eye caught a really cute sign some fans in the stands had made, all crooked letters and bright colored marker.

Suddenly, it slammed toward his face as blue mingled with red. The familiar thump of the glass greeted him and somebody’s stick clacked hard into the side of his helmet.

He opened his mouth to yell about fucking cross-checks, but started sliding down the boards instead. Somewhere, a small voice in the back of his head reminded him that he hadn’t seen number 53 in a minute, the really big one, and then everything went dark.

There were a few waves of fuzzy reality before things came back for real.

The lights were too bright and the ice was too cold against his cheek.

“ _...automatic review by the league…” _

Low, earnest tones from Jeralt, flashes of blue and red as his teammates circled around, fidgeting, trying to get a glimpse at him.

The blue surface of a stretcher slid under the back of his head, and he sank under again to the sounds of applause that he didn’t understand.

“ _ make our best efforts to get you an update on the health of Gautier….” _

Sylvain fell. Armor clanked, and he smelled blood and felt the sharp cold of snow. Everything was dark, except for a voice calling his name. Someone rolled him over, and his eyes opened. He focused on the brightest, steadiest star in the midnight blue of the sky and on the voice calling to him, which was far away, but getting closer.


	2. who are you now?

Rolling piano notes tinkled out over the speaker, and Annette’s skates sparkled and danced over the ice: she looked weightless. Felix pushed off as the deeper strings of the violins sounded, and he followed, taking the hand she stretched toward him.

The minor key suited things, Felix thought, as he moved into a crossover to build up speed. He lifted Annette, effortlessly as always, turned onto an outside edge, placed her carefully and watched her turn. She skated so much more joyfully now, he thought ruefully.

Now that she’d decided to give it up.

Their conversation of two months ago replayed in his mind. She’d been kind and straightforward with him, and she deserved to retire. Still, they’d been skating together for so many years. Felix felt like this final performance—not even a competition, just a frivolous little “show” with some other skaters—was hardly a sendoff. Though, how much of that was his own disappointment getting in the way of his judgment?

He scowled, and his eyes slid away and down toward the ice.

“Hey, Felix, that’s not in the choreography.” Her chirpy voice floated across the ice toward him. She stopped going through their scripted moves to glide in front of him, twitching his long dark ponytail back over his shoulder and wrinkling her nose at him. She was trying to put some lightness into the day, but it weighed on her too. Their last practice.

They moved through the next few bars of the music, building up speed again. He threw Annette, and watched her tuck her limbs in and spin, landing with a fresh smile. She made it look so easy. She always had.

The strains of music faded, and the crowd cheered for them. Felix kept catching sight of young, hopeful eyes staring down at the ice.  _ Kids who’d be better off with someone else as idols _ , he thought. Some of them were crying; Annette’s announcement had hit the press release circuit a couple of weeks ago to help sell tickets for this event. It had worked, too; Conand Arena was nearly full. She tossed back bright hair, a sharp contrast to the glittery white of her costume, and the cold and exertion pulled a pretty pink flush to her cheeks like always. Felix wondered if her new acting career would make her this happy.

He hoped it would. She placed her hand in his without looking; his other hand went to her waist, and they skated off the ice together for the last time.

Outside, there was a swarm of reporters. Ugh. It had been bad enough dealing with them when they were active, when the two of them knew exactly what was happening six months, nine months, a year from now. But now? Truly disgusting.

Fortunately, Annette’s engaging smile and genuine enthusiasm for the spotlight garnered enough attention for Felix to mostly blend into the background; all he had to do was nod along with what she was saying and it seemed like it was coming from both of them. He’d miss that, too.

It was draining, and after— not very long, probably, honestly— Felix’s gaze darted off to the side. His attention was wrenched back by a particularly obnoxious reporter.

“Felix! Felix! What are your plans for the future? After three world championships with Annette, what’s next for you on your own? Or will you find a new partner?”

_ They always fucking do this _ , he thought. He shivered in the misting rain through his thin sweater and light, military-style jacket.

“If you want me to answer your damn questions, don’t ask me five at once.”

The reporter looked at him expectantly, and Felix realized he didn’t  _ have  _ a goddamned answer. He just stood there, silently, before pushing past everyone and into the waiting car.

The city was gray and drizzly out the winder as the car glided through the mostly-empty streets. The steps up to his walk-up creaked like they always did in the damp.

Felix slumped on the couch, aware that he needed to shower and get the rest of his makeup off, but he was too tired and dejected to bother. He rubbed a thumb over his lips and it came away still tinged; he stared down at it for a long moment and then wiped it roughly on his pants. He wondered idly if he could lose himself in television, but didn’t bother turning the thing on.

His phone buzzed from the pocket of his jacket, which he’d slung unceremoniously over a chair.

There were three messages from Shamir, his manager. He supposed it had worked out well for he and Annette to have separate representation; this split was turning out to have way more things to untangle than their earlier one, when they’d decided they were better as friends but continued skating together.

He dashed off a quick answer but put off most of the talking until tomorrow.

After far too long tossing and turning, Felix kicked his legs out of the covers and turned on the fan. The noise lulled him into fitful, sweaty dreams. They were familiar, a type of dream he’d had since he could remember.

Some kind of old-fashioned military school with brick paths and towering battlements and horses and armor.

There were swords, and the quick swish of them through the air was a comfort, the same satisfaction as carving a perfect curve in the ice with the edge of his skate.

There were friends, and arguments, and a large redheaded man who shoved him by the shoulder, but it wasn’t unkind. The camaraderie held the same kind of comfort as the swords.

There was laughing and a dining hall and a big, echoey church, and it felt good to be among people.

He woke up and was grateful it wasn’t a more painful version of the dream. He’d seen people die, watched them cry as Felix died himself, all on a blood-soaked battlefield. Those dreams were always hard to shake, but there were worse things.

Felix peered at his phone. More messages, this time some from the old man. Two from Annette, promising to catch up after her plane landed tomorrow. He swiped his thumb across the screen, resisted the urge to tell Rodrigue to fuck off, and fell back to sleep again.

The jangle of the ring finally roused him.

“Ugh. What do you want?”

It was Ashe, and he almost regretted his surly tone.

“I’m...coming over, and we’re going to brunch!” The tone started hesitant and then moved quickly to bravado, which Felix immediately squashed.

“Fuck brunch. I’m sleeping.”

“It’s noon, Felix.”

“Did Annette tell you to call me?”

A long silence. “M-maybe.”

Felix sat up in bed and scratched at his hair. He had, in fact, taken a long shower before sleeping last night, but it had dried weird and lay in a disorganized mess over the top of his head.

“I don’t need your pity.” Ashe was a fucking, what, author? Writing books and sitting around in coffee shops? What the hell would he know about this strange life, or how Felix would deal with this part of it being—over? Different? He had no idea and he certainly didn’t want to talk about it, mimosas or not. He was probably more harsh than his friend deserved, but whatever.

He stared up at the ceiling, awake now and resentful. He scraped his hair into a messy ponytail and headed down to the kitchen to make some coffee to drink by himself.

Felix didn’t want to end up in someone’s dumb story anyway.


	3. the lonely end of the rink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: This chapter contains some scenes set in a hospital and mild vomiting in the beginning. This is also the chapter that earned this fic the M rating, for Sylvain being Sylvain, toward the end of the chapter.

A soft but incessant beeping broke through a hazy dream about—flying horses? And dragons? The images were such a throwback, Sylvain felt like he was going to see the walls of his childhood bedroom when he opened his eyes, and then things shifted into focus and he realized he was in a hospital.

He blinked, twice, and sat up—too quickly.

“Ow, fuck.” The headache pounded, and bits and pieces of the events that had landed him here started to come together.

His mother startled next to him and he reflexively let out a little “sorry” for the curse, but she just scooted close and placed her hand on his arm.

“How are you feeling?”

He laughed. “Oh, y’know, as good as I can be after taking a dirty hit from a two hundred and fifty pound defenseman.” The forced laugh made his forehead throb again, and he rubbed it ruefully.

“Do you want the nurses to get you something?”

“Nah, I think I’m—” His stomach gave an ominous lurch and he looked around the room quickly, his vision still a little blurry.

“Is there some kind of—” His hand flew in front of his mouth and his mother was instantly at his side, swooping up a shallow little plastic cup he’d missed on the side table and holding it to his mouth.

For the second time in a few minutes, Sylvain felt like a little kid as he heaved, and his mother smoothed her hand over his hair and back. It was a little embarrassing, but honestly of all people he’d want here, it’d be her.

“It’s probably the pain of the migraine.” Her delicately accented syllables were soft. “They told us there might be some of this.”

_ Shit. Fuck.  _ It started dawning on him what was happening. Had happened. What this was, and meant. He hoped that the wetness seeping from his eyes could be written off to his stomach, which had settled into an unpleasant but stable sourness.

“Thanks.” He tried to blink his eyes clear before looking into her sympathetic brown ones, but he could tell by her expression that she saw right through him. Bullshitting Marette wasn’t something any of the Gautiers were terribly good at, anyway.

“We don’t have to talk about it now.” She let the words settle in the quiet, dimmed room before continuing. “Ingrid brought you some things. She said she would be back this evening.”

He peered into the backpack Marette handed over and there were his phone charger, a change of clothes, some handheld video games, and a few bottles he recognized, and laughed softly. Leave it to Ingrid to remember his skincare routine. She’d given him shit for it when they were kids at camp, but wouldn’t you know she’d come looking for tips as soon as she was interested in one of the girls on her team.

“Dimitri’s been here twice, but they had to get on the plane—”

She trailed off, and Sylvain was quiet for a moment. “Yeah, to the away game in Derdriu. I know.”

As much as this whole mess still felt unreal, it was sinking in fast.

“Where’s Dad?”

Marette was quiet. “I’ll bring him by tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?

“They’d like to keep you overnight. For...monitoring.”

It was bad, then. The little flares of hope darting up in his chest kept getting extinguished, quickly, one by one, as soon as they lit. Sylvain rested his head back on the pillow and looked away, unwilling to confront his mother’s sympathy.

“I’ll get you some water,  _ mon lapin _ .” She patted his foot through the blanket and left the room.

Her little rabbit. The nickname had been coined when Sylvain was three or four, hopping after the puck in mini-mites, and stuck. Everything he was was tied to this game. Who would he be without it? He didn’t want to think about it, but there was nothing else to think about in here. He realized his mother knew him well enough to give him some time alone for that, too.

Sylvain got up off his couch, a little slower than usual but not by much, and answered the door. It was Miklan. He hadn't visited...well, it had been a long time.

"Oh, hey. Come on in."

"Hey." Miklan followed him inside. He was still big, way bigger than Sylvain, despite team conditioning being a long way behind him.

"Mom sent this." He held out a casserole dish awkwardly, and Sylvain accepted it without comment, setting it down on his overpriced coffee table that he’d bought to impress dates.

Of course. Miklan never would have come by on his own. The stupid little desire Sylvain always had for his brother to like him, to want to hang out together just because, darted up and was squashed down again. Miklan gazed around his apartment with a vaguely hazy expression, and then abruptly began running his mouth, telling Sylvain not to turn the lights on too brightly, that he shouldn’t wear headphones, to remember to write stuff down….he was rambling and it didn’t make sense. With a sinking feeling, Sylvain recalled the time when Miklan had truly gone off the deep end, the worst time, and this was eerily familiar. He stepped close and looked up at his brother, searching his eyes.

"Miklan, are you on something?"

Just like that, the tone changed and Miklan’s face darkened.

"No! Fuck you!" The words exploded from his lips and he turned away.

Sylvain held up both hands, palms out. "C'mon, it's a fair question."

“Not like it’s any of your goddamn business. See if I come by to see your sorry ass again.”

He shoved past Sylvain and out of the apartment, leaving the door hanging open and the faint scent of whiskey trailing behind him. A vague, mumbled sentence ending in something that sounded like “asshole” followed.

_ Welp, that was a shitshow. _ Sylvain closed his front door, and then slowly picked up the plastic container from the table. He took it to the fridge, slow with disappointment.

It wasn’t until a couple of hours later, blinking at some of the sounds blaring from the FPS in front of him, that Sylvain set down the controller in thought. Those things he’d said—they  _ hadn’t  _ been random. It had just taken Sylvain this long to match them up with some of the things the doctors had told him when he’d been discharged. Miklan, of all people, understood things about what Sylvain was going through right now. Things not many other people would.

And he’d been trying to tell Sylvain how to deal. In his own, halting, rambling way, but it made sense. Of course it did, now that things had gotten royally fucked up. Sylvain picked up his phone a few times, trying to think of a pacifying text, but in the end he chose the path of least resistance between them and said nothing.

At least some things remained the same.

That night, Sylvain dreamt about Glenn Fraldarius of all people. Except, instead of being Miklan’s random friend who died at a practice and had a couple memorial services among the hockey families who knew him, he died in a horrible blaze of swords and blood and fire. It was excruciating, especially the part where for some reason Sylvain was the one who had to tell Glenn’s brother that he died.

He woke up and laughed reflexively to dispel the awful feeling, even as his skin crawled, unpleasantly cool with sweat. In the dream, Glenn had been engaged to Ingrid.  _ Good luck buddy; she doesn’t even play for your team. _ He supposes Ingrid had had a poster of him on her wall for a while. He’d been a damn good center for the few years he’d been in the league. First-round draft pick, right when things were getting tough for her. It had been good for her to have him to look up to, even if they’d never met, and she'd taken it hard when he died.

It was probably one of the reasons that Ingrid was behind Sylvain’s family in being up his ass about his own career, he thought, as he tipped his head back and shower water sluiced through his hair.

But it wasn't Ingrid who’d come over to rouse him out of a couple weeks of feeling sorry for himself. Not that Ingrid hadn't called, but she was busy with her own games and practices.

No, it had been Mercedes who'd shown up at his door. He'd been sitting in the dark watching his old highlight reels, and the full force of how pathetic that had made him feel had curdled in his chest as he’d gotten up to answer the door.

After exchanging the barest of pleasantries, she’d bundled him off toward the shower.

"I'm taking you out tonight. It's time." Her soft voice left no room for negotiation.

She’d left briefly to get him a clean towel, and Sylvain had leaned his head back into the spray. He’d let the water pound against his forehead, thinking about the dumb squishy mass inside whose vulnerability had ruined his career.

Still he was feeling good enough to peek out around the shower curtain when she came back.

"Care to join me, beautiful?"

"I'd consider it if I thought you'd brushed your teeth in the last three days." She twitched the shower curtain closed definitively, and Sylvain let out a laugh that felt real for the first time in weeks.

Mercedes was a good one, he thought, as she made herself at home in his apartment. Originally one of the team’s physical therapists, she’d left to open her own high-end massage practice downtown, and he was happy it was going well for her. A statuesque blonde, she’d always tossed the team’s inevitable flirty remarks right back at them, and she and Sylvain had struck up an easy, sarcastic rapport from the get-go.

She didn’t talk a lot about them, but Sylvain had had enough late-night beers with her to know that Mercie knew what it was like to have a pain-in-the-ass kind of family. He smirked at his reflection as he went through the usual grooming routine in the mirror when he heard her impatiently fluttering in from his room, where she’d no doubt been bustling.

“Come on, Captain High Maintenance. I picked out an outfit for you already. Let’s go— by the time you get every lock of hair perfect, all the hotties will have made their plans for the night!”

She peeked over his shoulder in the mirror and took a good look. Behind the easy teasing and banter was real worry and concern, and she squeezed a damp shoulder before he answered.

“You insult my taste. But then, you always did have a great sense of style.”

Sylvain met her eyes in a quick moment of gratitude, then clutched at the towel around his waist in mock horror. “Miss Mercedes, my dignity! Barging in when a man’s not fully dressed!”

“Save it, Gautier. And save your moves for the club.”

With a quick yank, she divested him of his towel and left, cackling.

The music was deafening, and four drinks in and a beautiful woman hanging off his arm, Sylvain decided to call it a night. She had dark hair and dark eyes and a dark smile, and he was pretty drunk but he remembered to promise Mercie he’d text her in the morning. In the cab home, the city lights smeared in the drizzle on the windows, and before Sylvain could think too hard about loneliness or loss or next week, the girl’s fingers were dancing across his lap. He got to work smearing her shimmery lip gloss, and working his way down her neck instead.

She felt good under him, and touching him, and she made pretty noises when he made her come. He did that a couple of times, grinning for a while at the sense of validation from the way she shook around him, before letting himself go with a quiet grunt.

He was thankful she hadn’t said anything about who he was. They fell asleep, and by the time he woke up, she was gone. He couldn’t even remember her name.

But his head didn’t hurt. He guessed that was good. He got up, turned on the fan, and fell asleep again.


	4. just like moments passing in front of me

Annette had always joked that, left to his own devices, Felix would simply slide into becoming nocturnal. He'd always scoffed at the idea. As he watched the sun rise on another day with no practice in it, no training, no press call, no costume fitting, Felix figured she'd been right.

It was fine; no one was looking for him anyway.

When he woke up, the sun had already set, and he scrolled through the texts and missed calls, realizing maybe that wasn't true. Shamir was really on his case— Felix figured he had another day and a half or so of ignoring her before she showed up on his doorstep.

So he dashed off a couple of texts. No, he wasn’t interested in commentating for the regional pairs finals. The idea made him sick. No, he didn’t want to go on the goddamn local radio station. And  _ oh fucking christ no _ was he not going to do a spread for Fodlan Cooking about his grilling recipes. That just got a “what the actual fuck.” in response.

When Shamir just texted back “you have to do something,” Felix had to admit she had a point. Blunt, maybe, but he had always respected that about her. Her no-bullshit approach was one of the reasons they worked together well.

He went for a run, the cool night air reminiscent of rink air but without the bite of the ice.The stars were bright and steady, muted as they were behind the haze of city light. Felix’s feet pounded on the pavement at a quick pace, but it still felt slow, even after an hour, even after sprinting enough to make his cheeks burn hot and the sweat gather under his hair.

True to form, Shamir was physically on the doorstep of his rented townhouse when he got back.

“Creep. Why don’t you call?” He caught his breath, hands on his hips and peering at her with annoyance.

She just laughed. “Midnight running? You’re gonna trip over something and break those million-dollar legs you work so hard on. Invite me in.”

Felix rolled his eyes and pulled his house key out of his sock. “Fine. But you’re pouring.”

Half a glass of expensive scotch and half an hour of mostly-quiet went by before Shamir pulled up an email from a local fitness magazine. She handed him her phone wordlessly and curled around her drink, leaning back on his couch.

Felix glanced at the email quickly enough to get the gist, then dropped the phone next to Shamir on the couch like it had insulted him.

“Why would I agree to this? I told you I didn’t want to teach. This would be worse.”

Shamir didn’t laugh often, but the smile teasing around her lips told him she was thinking about it. “Look, it’s one afternoon. I thought it would be a good way to ease you into…” She sighed. “You know. Being a little more public.”

“Am I a show pony now? Goddamnit, Shamir.” He tossed back the rest of his drink.

She smirked. “You want me to compliment your legs again?”

“Shut up.”

She poured again, and savored the liquid from her glass before swallowing. “You’re not done, you know. This probably feels like the world is ending, but it’s not. You’ll see that eventually.”

Felix paused for a long time, flicking his gaze out through the window before answering. “I’m not suited to solo work; you know that.”

“I do. And I also know that you’re known as difficult to work with. Not that I’ve ever noticed.”

He almost told her to shut up again, but figured she knew.

“You suck it up for little stuff like this, it helps me find you a new partner.”

Felix didn’t want a new partner. He wanted to skate with Annette. But things moved forward, sometimes faster than you wanted. He picked up the phone again and read through the email, then dropped it, not unkindly, into Shamir’s lap.

“Fine.”

_ Sylvain Gautier returns to the ice for your Blue Lions! _

The clapping from the fans was polite. It was "we're glad you're not dead," respectful clapping, not the screaming and whooping he used to hear. Sylvain grinned and waved around the stadium gratefully, but his chest clenched and hurt at the realization that he was never going to hear those cheers again.

He’d “returned to the ice”.... Kind of. He’d suited up for this game for a variety of reasons, mostly PR, but wasn’t going to be allowed to take any shifts, also for a variety of reasons, mostly PR.

It hurt, watching his old teammates vault over the boards only to come back sweaty and breathless. He handed them water bottles and felt like a waste of space.

The game was boring, but the locker room afterward wasn’t. The girl he’d taken home the other night had posted a photo of his naked ass on social media while he was completely passed out in his own bed. He wished she hadn’t posted it, but he guessed it didn’t really matter anymore. It wasn’t like the team cared. He wasn’t connected to their current “image” anyway.

The girl hadn’t found him or messaged him on any of his socials, and he stared down at the photo. The hashtags #BaggedAGautier, #AinAnatomy, #HockeyButt, and #onenightstand weren’t terribly creative, but at least they were vaguely flattering. Whatever. Of course it was viral. He swiped the app closed.

He was tempted to block her, but that would mean it mattered. He laughed extra loud at one of the guys’ jokes instead, and texted Hilda, asking where a good party was tonight.

Mistake. She immediately called, and started chattering on about some ridiculous video series she wanted him to do.

“Hilda. Hiiiillldaaaa. I want to go out, not go to work.”

“I  _ am _ your social media manager. Time to be social! Productively!”

He sighed, only moderately hungover, which was not bad considering the previous few nights. She talked him into wine night at her place instead, which was just as well, he guessed.

Sylvain changed out of his uniform for the last time. He threw the jersey in his bag to take home, and shrugged into a suit and tie. Before stepping outside the locker room, he squared his shoulders for the inevitable onslaught from the press.

The cacophony of questions was too much to be heard at once, so he just held up a hand and waited.

“I didn’t think I’d be making a retirement speech at this age, but that’s what this has to be. Tonight was, unfortunately, my last game.

“And I hope these guys don’t feel like I’m letting them down. Because to be honest with you, that’s kind of what it feels like to me.

“But this is an amazing group of guys. The best. And I have no doubt they’re going to have a fantastic season, and future, and Jeralt— Coach Eisner is leading them into a really bright future. He’s building something good here.

“I’m just grateful, you know? Hockey’s kind of, kind of in my blood and it’s been amazing to be here, at the highest level. I’m going to miss this locker room and these guys more than I can say. I can’t even start calling out names because they’re all important to me. Every single one. I’m just happy I was able to skate next to them as long as I did.”

Okay, wow. Thinking about Dimitri and Dedue and the rest of the guys had his hands shaking and his throat tightening. Sylvain looked off into the distance and focused on one of the logos in the hallway until he could get steady again, and then he started taking questions.

“Do you think you’ll look for an on-air position? Maybe something in the booth?” The FBC reporter was small and cute, not unlike the girl from the club the other night. Sylvain gave her a charming wink and a smile.

“That’s definitely on the table. You offering? I played the Hockey Night in Fódlan theme song on a kazoo, I think when I was about five. Annoyed the crap out of my parents. I’d be down for that, for sure.”

“What about overseas play?”

“What about college coaching?”

“Have you gotten a second opinion on your medical situation?”

“I’m from a film production company; we’re interested in doing a documentary about you and your brother, but we haven’t been able to get in contact with him.”

His head spinning, he took as many questions as he could while remaining as noncommittal and charming as possible. Soon the flurry tapered off and he posed for a couple of photos, and...that was it. Fifteen years of grinding and training for this league, five years of playing in it, and that was it.

It was the line of kids waiting for autographs, though, three of them crying, that got him in the end. He was grateful for the car ride alone to Hilda’s place to get himself together. He was exhausted enough to agree to do at least five of the eight million things she proposed before the chardonnay got too low and they retreated into a series of comfort movies and gossip.

Sylvain had more dreams about snow and war that night, but whoever it was who was looking for him, they hadn’t found him. He woke up on Hilda’s couch and made a face. Better off. Whoever it was, he’d probably just disappoint them.

“Have you thought about writing a book?”

“Are there any possibilities for seeing  _ you _ onscreen anytime soon?”

“When do you expect you’ll return to the ice?”

“Is it true that you’ll be bowing out of this year’s nationals?”

Felix wanted to bolt. All these questions were so stupid. And he was inordinately conscious of the empty space next to him, the space where Annette used to stand, and smile, and pinch Felix until he occasionally smiled, too.

“This sucks,” he murmured to himself, but the daggers in Shamir’s gaze from behind the reporters were enough for him to make it low and inaudible. Time to suck it up.

“I’m planning to uh, devote time to my hobbies. And stay in shape.”

He fumbled through about fifteen more minutes before Shamir nodded, and he waved and left as fast as he could. This was the shittiest part of the job, and he had to get better at it so he could get back to the things he actually loved. Annette had been the one who’d left the sport, but somehow she’d left Felix the one who felt like a failure.


	5. toe pick

Felix blinked, and took a long sip of coffee. It wasn’t exactly _early_ , but his sleep schedule meant that everything seemed far too bright for his liking. And loud. What was this horrible pop music blasting through the speakers? This was worse than when Annette had talked him into skating to ABBA. Ugh.

Everyone seemed to be chattering at once, and he lingered, effortlessly balancing on blades and striding toward the ice. A chattery pink-haired woman caught his arm.

“Hi there! You’re….” She looked down at her phone quickly. “Felix, right? Thanks for participating! I just want to get everybody introduced and then we can get on the ice!”

He trailed to a stop, reluctantly, and she backed up to talk to the whole group.

“Okay, so this is going to be really fun! I worked with Fódlan Health & Shape Magazine to get this going, and they’re a sponsor, so you’re going to have to deal with some ‘promo-ing’ from me here and there, but mostly just have fun with it, okay? You’re allllll really charming, so I’m sure we’ll get tons of fantastic stuff that we can use for the channel!”

Felix rolled his eyes and took another sip. The americano was bitter on his tongue, and he savored the feeling before swallowing. He took stock of the other participants: three hulking, jock types, Leonie Pinelli, and a tall purple-haired guy Felix hadn’t met before.

“Hey Felix.”

He nodded at Leonie as she strode up to him. A no-nonsense solo skater, she struggled with stupid judges knocking her down in marks because her style was allegedly too “athletic” and not “graceful” enough. Felix had always thought it was bullshit, and a not-so-thinly veiled way to say that the uptight asshole side of the skating world didn’t find Leonie’s style traditionally “feminine” enough. Felix honestly loved watching her skate. She was dynamic, and explosive, and her technical brilliance was off the charts. If she’d been looking for a partner, she’d have been top of his list.

She’d actually been placed with Felix for a while in private lessons when they were younger, because Felix had a reputation for being particularly graceful and fluid. He chuckled, thinking about the resulting fistfight that had christened the start of their friendship. He'd been grounded for a week for skating their school's St. Cichol's Day program with a black eye.

He liked Leonie.

The pink-haired woman was chirping at them again to get on the ice, so Felix took a long sip of coffee, set it down, and strode forward and onto the ice. The tall lanky guy was apparently some kind of ice dancer, and the other three were hockey players, none of them familiar.

He didn’t think so anyway, but his eyes flicked back to the redhead again. Something about him tickled the back of Felix’s mind but it was, whatever. He’d probably seen him in a commercial or something. Or something having to do with Glenn, back then. Felix scowled. These hockey types were all the same.

Hilda finished the introductions and explained how the day would work; Sylvain shifted his weight forward in a fidget, expecting the usual curve of his blades to send him gliding forward without even thinking about it, but he just stayed put. These flat things were awful.

The guy next to him, shorter but with a broad span of shoulders, alsp frowned doubtfully down at the figure skates they’d been given for the day (from a sponsored brand, of course, Hilda knew what she was about as usual).

“I’m gonna trip over these for sure. I feel like this is a definite handicap.” He grinned at Sylvain.

Sylvain nodded, laughing at the goofy skates strapped to his feet. “Claude, right?” He'd remembered a little from Hilda's introductions.

“Yeah, nice to meet you, man.” Claude fidgeted too, sliding his feet back and forth waiting.

“Where do you play?

“Overseas, mostly. Trying to break into the Fódlan market, but it’s tough. You?”

Sylvain eyed him: nice, broad chest but not nearly as big as most of Sylvain’s former teammates. He could see why the guy had a hard time.

“Just left the Faerghus Lions.” He stretched and sighed happily, like he had the whole world in front of him and was excited to see what happened next. Just like that. He folded his arms behind his head and listened to the purple haired guy explain the thing they were supposed to do. He was wearing a tight black turtleneck and a hell of of a lot of eyeliner for ten in the morning, but he knew what he was doing. He pushed off on one foot and spread his arms out, lifting his other foot behind him as he coasted.

The guy--Lorenz, apparently, thanks again Hilda—demonstrated the simple move and then swung around with an elaborate flourish, scraping his foot across the ice, toe pointed. Sylvain couldn’t help snorting. Were they all gonna be like this? Sylvain rolled his eyes. How precious.

The move looked easy enough--just coasting on one foot—but the athletes struggled. Ingrid had to put her foot down the first time and try again, laughing it off and taking a tip from Leonie. Claude managed to stay on one foot but with none of the extended graceful limbs of the skaters.

Finally, it was Sylvain’s turn. He managed to pull it off pretty well, actually. Maybe he should thank Mercie for dragging him to those yoga classes. A surly little dark-haired skater swept up behind him.

“Okay, we’re going to have you partner off to learn a couple of things now! Nice job, everyone!” Hilda’s chirpy voice rang out from next to the boards.

A scrape and a thunk, and Sylvain turned around to find his partner glaring at him with crossed arms. He knew this guy. He wasn’t sure they’d met, but he knew  _ of  _ him at least.

“Oh hey, the little Fraldarius brother. I heard you were…”  _ incredibly fucked up after your brother died holy shit shut up Sylvain before this entire skate goes in your mouth  _ “...a figure skater.”

“Call me little again and I’ll cut you. And yeah. Heard you were a big dumb hockey player who took one too many cracks to the skull. Try to keep up.”

With a strong push, Felix sped off to their designated area to practice, not waiting for Sylvain to join him or even looking back.

Sylvain laughed deep in his chest as he chased after him. He was a few months past two-a-days, but if this guy thought he was going to outrun somebody as well-versed as Sylvain in the old dump and chase, he had a rude awakening coming. He dug in and blew past Felix before they hit the blue line.

“It’s not a race, guys!” Hilda cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled after him.

“Not like that’d be a fair fight anyway.” Sylvain grinned at the lithe figure skater in front of him. He’d theoretically known of Felix’s existence since he was a kid, but being next to him like this was something different. He was small, but looked powerful. Composed, but fuming beneath the surface. But most of all, fascinating.

He coasted, and turned, and Felix grabbed at his arm.

“Stop screwing around.”

Sylvain just laughed. He was cute, if a little intense. A long, glossy-black ponytail swung behind him as he just huffed and showed Sylvain the next move. It was pretty simple, just a short hop from one foot to the next with a little flourish. Kind of like skills competition stuff. Sylvain shot Felix a winning smile and coasted into the move, finishing as instructed and adding a self-satisfied smile.

Those damned figure skates. The awful pointy thing on the front stuck into the ice and tripped him, and Sylvain went straight down onto the ice. Hard enough that he was surprised he didn’t bounce.  _ This sucks a little without pads, actually. _

“Gotta watch that toe pick, huh?” The words floated over Felix’s shoulder as he skated away. “I’ll get Hilda; that was decent enough to record until you fell on your ass. You’ll get the next one.”

Sylvain just laughed again, rubbing said ass as he scrambled back up and making sure no ice was clinging to his pants for the video. This guy did not give one single fuck about the Gautier name or who Sylvain had been before today, and damn if that wasn’t refreshing.

And yeah, maybe he was easy on the eyes, too.

Felix groaned internally. This giant jock was honestly better at this basic stuff than he had any right to be. Maybe he had a sibling who skated or something. Also, it was generally easier for people in extremely good shape to pick this kind of thing up. And Sylvain appeared to be in excellent shape.

Not that Felix had noticed. Or cared.

The others had been passable. Well, that wasn’t true. The short hockey guy was fine, but the blonde was  _ terrible _ . Really awkward and stiff, and the only reason she got the moves done was because she literally muscled through them. Felix grudgingly supposed that was worth something, even if it was a little hard to watch.

“You guys are doing  _ so _ good, Leonie says we’re ready for something more challenging!” Hilda clapped her hands and started recording again.

Leonie grinned and skated forward.

“Watch and learn, guys. Ingrid, can you help me out, please?” She turned to face her partner as Ingrid skated forward. “Okay, so this is really simple. Remember the basic spin we did earlier? You’re going to do just one of those together, and then one of you will pick up your partner. Like this.”

She nodded at Ingrid, and spun slowly enough that Ingrid could keep up with her. Leonie stopped, and Ingrid skated forward. Leonie placed Ingrid’s hands at her waist. “Okay, champ, fire away; I’m ready.”

Ingrid lifted her straight up, and Leonie flicked her arms out in a little flourish.

“See? Easy peasy.” Leonie flashed a grin down at Ingrid, who blushed immediately. “You can put me down now.”

They broke off into groups to try it for the cameras, with varying degrees of success.

“Well, obviously—” Lorenz gestured down toward his shorter skating partner—“I’m to pick  _ you _ up. I’m much taller.” His tone was lofty.

“You’re a stick. I’m sure I outweigh you by like sixty pounds. C’mon, up you go.”

Lorenz sneered. “Wouldn’t want my legs to drag the ground. Better to do it my way.”

Never losing the grin, Claude leaned close to Lorenz. “I’ve only known you for a day, but I’ve been thinking about throttling you the entire time.”

Lorenz smiled sweetly for the camera and murmured back, “Can you even reach my neck?”

There were no such arguments with Felix and Sylvain, but Felix felt slightly irritated at the prospect of switching roles. He knew in  _ theory _ what he was supposed to do, but something about the weight shift was wrong, probably because he was tense. Sylvain put his hands in the right position, and lifted, but Felix flinched and lurched backward, throwing them both off balance. They tumbled to the ice, Felix directly on top of Sylvain’s solid bulk.

It must have been nothing compared to taking hockey hits, because he just laughed. Again. Did he take anything seriously?

“You have to trust me! I’m not gonna drop you.” His grin was way too disarming, and Felix scrambled up, away from the feel of Sylvain’s chest vibrating as he chuckled.

“You’re not used to having someone else pick you up, are you?”

Lips pressed together and cheeks burning, Felix forced out, “No.”

Sylvain bounced up faster than Felix thought he should have and settled his hands at Felix’s waist again. They were large, and warm, and Felix took a deep breath.

“Like I said, trust me, okay?”

Ignoring the fact that Sylvain was so much taller than him that the words felt like they ruffled his hair, Felix just nodded.

“Let’s get on with this and get out of here.”

Sylvain laughed again, while bending down and lifting Felix like he weighed nothing.

“You’re such a charmer; I’m certainly in no hurry to leave.”

Felix thought he deserved extra points for not reaching back and giving Sylvain a skate to the face for that. But still, he was set down gently enough. He scowled again; was he really that tied to the “usual roles” that it bothered him that much to be up where Annette usually was? Or did he just miss her?

Or, as he scowled up at a cocky, freckled face when his skates finally hit ice again, was it just fucking hockey players and their ridiculous egos?

At least they were done. Shamir owed him one. A big one.

“Figure skaters, am I right?” Claude laughed and shook his head at Sylvain, who followed him off the ice with a grin of commiseration, and then a quick look back at Felix, who was innocently stretching off to the side and definitely not looking to see if Sylvain looked back at him again. And who definitely didn’t smirk when he noticed Sylvain almost getting caught up by that damned toe pick again.

In the background, Lorenz’s voice followed them, offended. “I heard that! And it’s  _ ice dancer! _ ”


	6. will you and i ever feel brand new?

“This looks so good! We have tons of views! And wow, look at the comments.” Hilda started scrolling through, and then snorted and covered her mouth with her hand.

“What?” Sylvain looked away from the road for a moment and craned his neck to look at Hilda’s phone, but she hid it from him.

“Nothing.”

“No, come on! What?” He poked her in the arm and gave his best puppy-dog pout.

“Nuh-uh. I’m not padding your ego.” She smirked and held the phone to her chest.

“So some people said I was hot in the comments, huh? That’s happened before.” He didn’t post all those thirst shots on his Instagram for nothing. Sure, they were always under the guise of “hanging on his friend’s boat” or “walking his dog,” but he liked the attention and always made sure to get his best angles. His face darkened a little, thinking of the unauthorized butt shot. Maybe not _that_ angle, but, whatever. He mentally rolled the gloom off in a move born of long habit.

“You... _and_ Felix.”

Sylvain nodded, trying to sound matter of fact about it. “Not untrue. Good-looking guy.” Oh, he’d _noticed_ noticed, but he sure as hell wasn’t telling Hilda or he’d never hear the end of it.

“Together. They’re...shipping you.”

Sylvain choked on nothing, coughing and keeping his eyes firmly on the road. Hilda silently handed him her frappucino, and he took a long sip. He tried to shrug like it didn’t matter.

“That’s cool.”

Hilda just giggled. “He _is_ good-looking, isn’t he? Maybe I should ask him out.”

“Maybe you should.” She was trying to get a rise out of him, and Sylvain was determined not to let it work.

“Sylvain. Look at this.” They finally pulled to a stop in the long, winding Goneril driveway, and she paused the video. Sylvain was skating after Felix, chin tilted up and an open grin on his face, clearly enjoying himself and tossing some comment toward Felix. Felix had his gaze pointed over one shoulder, sharp eyes stabbing some kind of insult at Sylvain, but the tiniest smirk curled the corner of his otherwise serious expression.

It _was_ kind of fun.

“Thanks to him for the good PR, I guess. Looks like it’s doing some numbers.”

Hilda slid out of the passenger side trying as hard as she could to look at him meaningfully, but Sylvain ignored her.

She poked her head in the driver’s side window. “Don’t you wanna know what your ship name is?”

“ _Goodbye_ , Hilda.” He didn’t peel out of her driveway; mostly out of respect for Holst, who he knew slept in and could _also_ toss him bodily into the Gonerils’ pool. But he thought about it.

Felix picked up the phone on the second ring. “Shamir.”

“Felix, the YouTube series did just what we were hoping. Do you have time to come in and sign a contract today?” He could hear her typing, and it sounded like she had the phone between her ear and her shoulder.

“You’re going to have to give me more to go on than that if I’m going to decide whether I agree to whatever this is.”

She sighed. “Okay, hear me out before you say no; it’s a reality show, and—”

“No. No. Absolutely not. I’m not going on some stupid show so they can manipulate me and make me look stupid. Why would you even ask me that?’ He wound a string from his sweatshirt around his finger until it snapped.

“I _told_ you to let me finish, you little shit. It’s a _skating_ reality show, okay? And it’s the best way for me to get you out there, get your face and name all over the screen and remind people of who you are. They’ll probably even end up talking about all the awards you won here and there as they talk about you over the course of the competition— assuming you stay in it long enough, of course.”

That rankled. Shamir always knew how to provoke him, damn her. Felix couldn’t help revising her words in his head, though: _she means “all the awards you_ and Annette _won_.”

“What’s the deal?”

“Simple. They pair you with a non-skater; well, I guess a non-figure skater, and there are a bunch of couples, and you all do a routine every week and get scored by judges. Last pair standing gets some money and a bunch of sponsor deals.”

Felix wrinkled his nose. “That’s not what I do.”

“Sponsor deals? The hell it’s not.” Shamir knew that the promotions and advertising he did far outstripped actual skating competitions in terms of money.

“No.” Felix made an exasperated noise. “ _Reality_ TV. Dragging some dead weight incompetent partner along beside me. Probably risking injury. And for what? So a bunch of slack-jawed TV viewers can be entertained? No way.”

“Thanks for being so reasonable about this, Felix. You can head over to my office in the morning to sign the paperwork.”

“Why are you like this?”

“That’s why you pay me the big bucks.” He could _hear_ her smirk.

He paused for a long time before answering. “Fine. Noon.”

“You won’t regret this.”

“Oh, I’m already regretting it.”

Sylvain’s phone sang its merry little tune from the coffee table, and he glared at it. He’d been spared a lot of headaches, but not today, and it was raging.

His head throbbed harder as Hilda chirped through the phone. “Soooo, I have a proposition for you.”

He forced a flirty tone. “Finally! Hilda, I knew you’d come around sooner or later. My place, or yours?”

“Shut up, Sylvain. I got a call from a TV producer about you!”

“Oh yeah? Another local car commercial?” That made him grin, even as he flopped back to lie all the way down on the couch to see if it would help. Those kinds of things were always so awkward, but something was better than nothing, he guessed.

“No! Reality TV! Like, a whole season of your face on the screen!”

“Hey, I can get my own dates, I don’t need to go on TV for that.”

“No, no, it’s not a dating show; it’s called Skating Stars. They take a professional skater and pair them with someone from like, something else. You’re perfect! They want you to skate with the guy from the videos. It’s a twelve-week commitment, but the exposure is _amazing_. And it’s right here in town so you can sleep in your own bed and everything, unlike some of the other contestants. It’s absolutely perfect and you should totally say yes.”

Sylvain thought about a long, glossy black ponytail and the curved line of Felix's body as he'd pushed off across the ice.

"You know what? Yeah. Isn't this the kind of thing we've been looking for? TV is good, right? And this can't be as demanding as playing again. It'll be like a break."

"I knew you'd be into it!" Hilda chirped happily. "I'll get you all the details soon."

Mercedes, bless her, had been checking in with him regularly, and insisted on taking him to her favorite hamburger-and-milkshake spot. She sipped her shake appreciatively while gently prodding him for gossip. There wasn’t much, other than the recent call from Hilda. Which Mercedes demanded he talk about, at length, as well as the fact that he’d be paired with the good-looking guy from the YouTube series.

Sylvain waved a fry at her. “That _is_ also a benefit. He’s very hot.” That was, actually, a massive understatement. Sylvain tried to keep it flippant as he chewed, but he’d been haunted by visions of lithe legs and a gracefully curved body since they’d spent one afternoon together. Pathetic, he guessed; he should probably get out more.

Mercedes frowned. “You better not give him your usual treatment, though. You’re awful to your dates, and he’s trying to rebuild a career just like you are.”

Sylvain laughed. “That....seems awfully premature. We’re supposed to skate together, not date together.”

Mercedes groaned loudly. “Who taught you to tell corny jokes like that? I curse you in your absence, Dimitri Blaiddyd.”

Sylvain went on. “Honestly, he seemed more likely to carve my face off with one of his skates than kiss me. And I don’t even know if he’s into guys.”

Mercedes nodded sympathetically. “That reminds me, did you ever agree to do that All of Us campaign? I thought that was a good idea. Lots of people look up to you.”

He shrugged, somewhat uncomfortable. “Would have been better to do it when I was actually, you know, still a professional athlete. Not sure how much good it does now.”

“You never know.” Her voice was a little singsong and teasing. “You might end up being the next big reality TV star!”

“Haha, yeah. Maybe.”

That night, Felix dreamed about Sylvain. He was sure this time. Not a mystery redhead, but him. Instead of pads, he was wearing some kind of medieval armor, and instead of catching Felix and preventing him from tumbling onto a rink, he'd thrown himself into the path of a giant beast with snarling teeth and savage claws. It hadn’t gone well for him, and Felix had clung to him after, trying to make sure he was still alive, but he was never sure.

He sat up, sweating. "That's it, no more tacos before bedtime." It had felt so real. He turned his hand over, still half expecting it to be sticky with blood, and thought about the warmth of Sylvain's neck against Felix's chest and the cold, sharp edge of his armor.

 _What in the actual hell?_ Felix barely knew this guy. He must be worse off than he thought, to be having weird-ass dreams like this.


	7. the way you said hello

Ok, so this was definitely different. The sheer amount of people, for starters. The only two names Sylvain was able to remember were Hubert, the dry, imposing assistant director; and Lysithea, a short, no-nonsense choreographer who’d responded to his flirting with a flat, pale-pink stare that felt like it bored through his soul. Charming, those two. Real magnetic. Sylvain could see why “TV people” had such a reputation for being so personable.

As they were lectured ominously by Hubert during what he termed “orientation,” Syulvain looked around and saw Felix picking at his fingernail. He tried to catch Felix’s gaze with a smirk, but got shut down with an eye roll, and Sylvain wasn’t sure whether if was directed at him or Hubert. That turned out to be a theme of the first few days, actually, once they were officially partnered together and started practicing.

Sylvain adjusted pretty quickly to the hectic practice schedule; the grueling physical pace was at least familiar. Even if all of the figure skaters  _ did  _ pick on him for his afternoon nap. Old habits were hard to break, okay?

But boy, all the intrusion was something else. Sylvain had always thought he’d dealt well with being a tiny bit famous (more because of his dad than because of his own career, but still), but this was on a whole new level. The cameras were up his ass  _ constantly _ . During practice made sense, of course. He’d seen reality TV. And he guessed it wasn’t too weird when the camera crew wanted to sit in his car as he drove back and forth to practice.

And filming them when the various contestants grabbed lunch together sometimes, that made sense too. Sylvain had enjoyed hearing about all the different leagues Claude had played with, even if the guy  _ was  _ a little evasive about his home base.

But the cameras were absolutely everywhere. It had come to a head one evening when they tried to follow Sylvain back to his apartment. He’d been so busy with the show, he knew the place would be slightly messy, which made him itch as it was— even worse to show all of Fodlan. He cut off the production assistant insisting Sylvain had allowed them access in the contract he’d signed.

“Talk to my agent about it, okay?” He was polite but not apologetic as he closed the door, knowing full well that Hilda would appreciate the impromptu promotion and also that there was no way she’d still be awake at this hour.

Of course, the cameras were close by to capture every single interaction between Sylvain and his partner. The show had managed to recreate at least two of the couples from the hyped YouTube series, so Sylvain and Felix and Claude and his partner Lorenz got a lot of attention—and footage—early on.

Ingrid had been unavailable because her team had made the playoffs, which was great. Sylvain watched all her games on his phone and texted her as soon as they were over with a strange mixture of pride, bitterness, jealousy, and honest support.

Odds are, Ingrid would have said no to the show anyway. She remembered to ask him how it was going, though, and tell him he probably looked great on camera, even between the hectic pace and tension of playoff rounds. Sylvain looked at his phone sometimes, thinking that she was a good friend that he didn’t necessarily feel like he deserved, but was glad to have. He was thinking about that specifically as he laced up a figure skate for what felt like the hundredth time that week and watching Felix enter the rink.

Felix had turned out to be...surprisingly more driven than crabby, actually, though definitely a lot of both and not exactly chatty. So far, the two of them had mostly wordlessly followed the examples of the choreographer and her assistant, and Sylvain had a feeling this was going to go well.

“What in the absolute hell would possess you to try a jump like that? Are you insane, or did you somehow miss the  _ six  _ times Lysithea and Marianne have shown you this? Are you trying to screw this up? Get it together!”

Stupid jocks. Felix had been an idiot to think this would be anything but torture. He knew he was being unfair; it’s not like Felix would have done all that well tossed into the middle of a professional hockey game. Still. He’d  _ told  _ Shamir he didn’t want to teach, and yet that’s exactly what he’d ended up doing.

Lysithea arched an eyebrow at his tirade, but said nothing about it. They’d worked together before, and Felix knew she was just as stubborn as he was, if not more so. He acknowledged her silent reprimand with a look.

Marianne, Lysithea’s assistant, leaned over and squeezed Sylvain’s arm, blue fringe falling in her eyes as she tipped her head toward him shyly.

“You’re doing really well for your first try!” Her voice was so soft and timid, Felix barely heard it, and he almost felt guilty.

Almost, until Sylvain winked at her with a broad grin. “You make it look so easy. And it’s definitely not easy, but—having such a beautiful example to follow helps so much.”

Marianne blushed and giggled, and Felix suppressed the urge to make a gagging noise at Sylvain as her tall, willowy frame skated off the ice.

“All right, Casanova.” Lysithea folded her arms. “We’ve got other contestants to deal with, and I’ve promised this lovely woman a non-working lunch for once. Try not to cause any major injuries or rut up the ice too badly for the next group, okay?”

Felix sighed.

“You heard the boss. Let’s get to it.” Sylvain was— way too upbeat, and eager, and….and energetic. Felix narrowed his eyes.

“Fine. You need to be able to pull off a jump without making everyone think you’re going to break your ankles any second. You need practice.”

He nodded to the PA to hit the music, and Sylvain flung his arms out with more enthusiasm than grace. Felix ducked his outstretched arm, barely avoiding being whacked in the face. It was going to be a long day.

Let’s see how well Sylvain could handle Felix’s favorite style of practice. He faced his partner and bared his teeth in an imitation of a smile.

Two hours of clashing skates, missed handclasps, barked corrections, and relentless repetition later, and the bastard was still smiling. Infuriating. And the worst part was that he was actually getting better. Rapidly.

He was still, Felix reasoned, elevating from negative thirty to zero, but the speed surprised him. And he did manage to make the choreography look better than some of the other beginners. Felix thought, completely detached, that it was likely the broad shoulders and well-developed chest; he’d seen that with other skaters before. Just nice to look at, that was all, he thought, as he circled around the ice and watched Sylvain closely. Yeah, giant muscles like that always looked good in that sort of pose, even if the person’s form sucked, actually.

Felix caught up and placed his hand precisely on the small of Sylvain’s back, per the choreography. He corrected Sylvain’s position— again— and suddenly noticed how sweaty he was. A clear, glistening bead rolled down Sylvain’s freckled neck and pooled in the divot at the center of his collarbone. Felix yanked his hand away.

“We need water.” He skated unnecessarily quickly over to the bleachers and grabbed his plain water bottle, tossing the one with the light blue Lions logo out in front of him.

Sylvain caught it in midair. “Thanks, Coach.” He laughed.

Felix scowled. “Still ever-loyal to the old hockey dynasty, huh?” It wasn’t any of his business, and he didn’t know why he felt the need to comment on it. He did know why it rankled, but refused to think about it.

The words sat, spoken and immovable, on the still, quiet ice.

“It’s not—These are the only ones I have.” He turned it over, looking at the stylized star on the opposite side of the lion. “Haven’t gotten new ones or anything.” He took a sip, wiped his forehead, and set the bottle down on top of the boards, still talking.

“It was my whole life up until, like, two months ago.” Sylvain took Felix’s bottle from him and set it next to his own. “I’m sure you can relate.” The words were light, but not in a flippant way, and Felix felt a strange tightness in his chest.

Sylvain started to push off, stopped, and held his hand out to Felix. “Again? Or have I worn you out?” There it was again, the shallow pleasantness was back up, and Felix decided to spurn the offered hand--it was probably cold anyway, it was always cold in here—and skate past him with a scoff.

Sylvain laughed again and Felix blew by. He cupped both hands around his mouth and called after him; Felix was halfway across the ice already. “You’re supposed to take my hand at this part! It’s where we left off.”

“ _ Fine _ .” Felix whipped back, loose strands flying out of their bun, and snatched at Sylvain’s stupid warm hand with the stupid hockey-stick calluses that were probably already fading, and why did  _ Felix _ feel bad about that?

“That’s more like it.” They turned back into the routine, which Felix grudgingly admitted to himself was already becoming smoother and easier.

Felix wanted to slap the easy grin off Sylvain’s face, but then that grin was far too close, hovering above him.

“We’re not...supposed to be this close.” The words were a low mumble. Felix felt like he didn’t want to look up, and then he did, and then teasing amber eyes made him even more angry.

“You know what this song is about, right?”

“No. Don’t care, either.” Thankfully, some part of Felix’s brain that had been learning and executing choreography since he was six had taken over, and he turned in sync with his idiot partner before Sylvain answered.

“Falling in love. It’s right there in the lyrics.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Sylvain stopped, serious again. “Look, I know there’s about a million people you’d probably rather be skating with, but….this is a show, yeah? Let’s put on a good one. We’ve been practicing hard enough.”

The music continued, and Sylvain skated a little distance away and looked back over his shoulder at Felix. Was that part of the choreography? Much as Felix had been keeping up automatically, he suddenly felt dazed and off-kilter.

Damn Lysithea, it was. Felix skated forward to let Sylvain pull him into a quick-reverse series of movements that he knew would look flashy. So much of this routine was just dancing, and he glanced over as Sylvain popped a shoulder, and then the other one.

Ugh, why did this look easy for him? Lysithea knew what she was doing, he guessed. And Felix’s attempt to outwork Sylvain had sadly failed. They finished the run-through with a flourish.

“Let’s quit for today.” Felix gave Sylvain a terse nod. “You’re…”

“Gifted? Impressive?”

“Adequate. I’m satisfied that we won’t embarrass ourselves.”

“Aw, come on, I know it was better than that. I wonder if the others...hey!” Felix didn’t wait for him to catch up. “What about that spin? I’m totally getting it.”

Sylvain wound up like a pitcher, clutching muscled arms close to his own chest and forcing the movement rather than relying on natural momentum. He spun two times too fast and three times too far, and promptly fell over. It wasn’t the first time today, but it was definitely the most dramatic.

“See you tomorrow, dumbass.” This time, Felix let Sylvain see his smile, though he didn’t stick around to help him up off the ice.

Sylvain dreamt about Felix yelling at him that night, but he wasn’t far away anymore. He was right there, in Sylvain’s face, and Sylvain kept trying to reach out for him, to tell him he was fine and he didn’t need to worry. But his hand went right through Felix’s shoulder every time, and before long he faded from view.


	8. i bet you kiss your knuckles

Sylvain was used to bright lights, but this was something else. He avoided touching his face, but the makeup felt thick and unnatural. Though, judging by the dark-slashed eyes of the man sitting next to him and bouncing one leg anxiously, it probably looked good. This was the part right before they went on, and they were forced to watch all the footage the annoying camera crew had been recording all week.

Well, not all of it.

It was chopped up and played out of order, and Sylvain suddenly understood why it was that they’d been asked to wear almost the same clothes to practice every day. The picture this was painting...it would be funny if it wasn’t kind of sad. Instead of the gradual getting-to-know-you process it had been, with a couple of bumps along the way, their week looked quite different. And then the big, booming voice-over started.

_ Sylvain and Felix’s easy camaraderie suddenly disintegrated. _

There was the clip of Felix yelling at Sylvain about the jump. Another clip of Sylvain, falling to the ice in slow motion and faded colors, as though it was some sort of tragic event and not something that happened to them all dozens of times a day. Sylvain yelling and slamming his fist against the wall.

“That was when I stubbed my toe in the locker room!” The words were a quiet hiss, but they still got him a glare from Hubert offstage. He made an irritated move of the hand at them that Sylvain figured probably meant “Go along with it,” and he looked helplessly at Felix, who only shrugged.

_ Can these two overcome their differences to deliver a solid performance tonight? Or will their bitter feelings get in the way? _

On the screen now were their profiles, wearing what were easily the shittiest faces either of them had made all week. And the cartoonish “fractured” graphic between the two of them was really too much.

All too soon, they were in place and the music throbbed from the speakers. Sylvain was confused. Did the show runners want them to fight? He looked over, and Felix was executing every move with detached, technical precision, as usual.

It was a little soulless, honestly.

Sylvain caught Felix’s eye and tried to telegraph a competitive challenge, get his spirit up a little bit. He wasn’t going to be a desperate housewife and fake a fight for the cameras, but might as well make it a little bit exciting if they were looking for drama.

He waited for the specific moment in the routine from their last practice, and pulled Felix inappropriately close again. Felix’s eyes flashed up at him before he danced out of Sylvain’s arms and across the ice with quick steps. He tossed his head and kicked it up a notch, meeting Sylvain’s challenge and daring him to keep up with him in every phrase, every flourish, the energy in all the lines of his body.

_ That’s more like it _ , Sylvain thought to himself. He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed excitement, and risk, and pushing himself so hard he barely remembered to breathe.

And as he extended a hand to Felix and he took it, he realized how much fun it was becoming to goad him, get a response, and make sullen eyes catch a sparkle.

It wasn’t perfect, but they enjoyed it more than they’d enjoyed anything all week. They were so focused on not being outdone that they were better than they’d planned, and as they finished, sweaty and grinning, the crowd seemed to agree.

Because it was loud, Sylvain tipped his head down so Felix could hear. “Nice work, partner. Hope that wasn’t too embarrassing.”

Felix tried not to smile and mostly succeeded. “Not bad, Gautier, not bad.” They skated off to listen to the judges’ feedback, and he kept talking. “For someone who has absolutely no idea what he’s doing…”

He was still talking, but Sylvain was thinking about whether the cameras would catch him if he tucked an errant, drifting strand of shining black hair back into the swaying ponytail in front of him.

They ended up in the top three teams, but they barely had time to enjoy it before Hubert hauled them offstage.

“Edelgard has left her office. She must speak with you.”

At their lack of reaction, he lowered his voice even more. “Edelgard  _ never _ leaves her office.”

The odd feeling of being caught together, of being marched down to someone’s office, particularly alongside Felix, filled Sylvain with a strange feeling of  _ deja vu _ , which made no sense since he hadn’t met the guy until that silly YouTube series. Must be some odd lingering memory of his from school. Or something.

Waiting to be reprimanded by the executive director, Felix immediately thought of his recurring dreams. Strange, that the tall redhead who kept showing up had been replaced by, or--turned into? Sylvain. Had that always been the case? He couldn’t remember.

She was cold, and direct, and the two of them vaguely promised to pretend to fight. Or something. Felix didn’t really care. What were they going to do, throw them off the show?

They were being granted a rare day off tomorrow, and in celebration most of the contestants had planned to meet up down the street, at Highlights. It was every bit as cheesy of a bar as the name would indicate, and Felix was sorely tempted to skip it and go home and sleep. But, well, if everyone was going, he figured he ought to at least make an appearance. Sylvain had been on the phone with his manager, nodding eagerly and agreeing to something or other, so Felix had walked over alone.

Thumping music, sticky floors— it was all so familiar, and so insipid. The neon lights in bright colors sold the ridiculous name, and Felix asked for a scotch, rocks, over a counter rimmed in bright-pink. He drained it, slowly, while watching the crowd. He didn't feel like dancing, and he wasn't even sure he knew anyone here. Why had he come again? Felix set the empty whiskey glass down and shook his head at the bartender when she asked if he wanted another.

The club was ridiculous, but the whiskey was decent. He felt a little bit of warmth spread through his chest. Relaxation was nice.

Leonie hopped on a barstool next to him and ordered a beer.

"How's it going? Are you two really at each other's throats, or is that just show drama?"

Felix laughed. "Mostly show drama, I think. He's...not so bad."

Leonie sighed. "At least you got someone with solid skating skills. I swear, if I have to catch my partner from falling  _ one  _ more time…"

"That soap opera star, right?"

"Yes. And unlike you two, he is  _ just _ as dramatic as he seems onscreen. He'd drive me insane if he wasn't spending most of his time mooning over the assistant director."

"Well." Felix fumbled for something nice to say. "At least you look nice together."

She elbowed him. "You just like gingers."

"Hey." It was quiet, but Leonie still laughed at him as she walked away.

“Hey, Felix! What are you drinking?" The  _ timing _ . Though Felix supposed he was grateful that Sylvain hadn't approached in time to hear Leonie's comment.

He carried a blue-green drink with a big loud garnish; it looked like it was probably sickly sweet.

"Nothing, at the moment, but whatever I drink will be better than whatever trash that is."

“They’re really good! You should  _ totally _ try one.” Sylvain clapped him on the shoulder harder than Felix expected, and he scowled at the hand as it landed overly heavily.

“Are you drunk already? Lightweight.”

Sylvain made a scoffing noise. “No way! Just loosened up.” His tone grew more mischievous. “You should try it sometime.”

“Whatever. Give me your wallet. I’m not paying good money for that green nonsense.”

“Anything for you, partner.” Sylvain handed over his wallet, and Felix rolled his eyes.

“You shouldn’t be so trusting; I could just walk out of here and steal all that—” he was going to say “ _ hockey dynasty money _ ” but something made him stop—“ridiculous cash you carry around,” he finished, saving it by peeking inside. "Go find a table; the bar is getting busy.

Sylvain just waved. “What’s mine is yours." He wandered away.

In the time between when he’d arrived and now, the bar had become packed. Apparently more people enjoyed this white-silver-neon nonsense than Felix had imagined. The crowd around the bar was insane, and it took forever to get two unnaturally turquoise drinks into his hands. He looked around, and Sylvain was nowhere to be found.

“What the hell, man.” He grumbled and looked around for Lysithea. She’d appreciate this.

Off in the corner, perched at a high top and tapping her foot to the music, she looked like she was having a good time. Felix stomped over and shoved one of the drinks at her.

“Here. It’s that sweet shit you like.”

Lysithea laughed, but accepted it. “What crawled up your ass and died?”

“I bought these stupid drinks for my stupid partner, and then he went...somewhere. The bathroom, maybe.” Felix sat next to her and sipped skeptically at his drink. It was sweet, but actually not disgustingly so.

“Oh, Sylvain? He fell asleep at a table, and Marianne took him home.” Lysithea poked her straw into the bright, glowing drink and took a long, appreciative sip. “Thanks; this is quite good.”

He must have been working harder than he was letting on. Felix sighed and stared at the wallet in his hand. “Thank Sylvain. And you can have this one too. I’m out.”

“You ok to drive or should I call one of the assistants?”

“I’m hardly their problem right now. And I had one whiskey two hours ago and then a sip of treacle. I’m fine.”

“All right. Off tomorrow, and then back at it bright and early.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Felix responded drily, and a little tiredly himself.

Felix pulled his car up to the address on the driver’s license in Sylvain’s wallet; it wasn’t far, and it wasn’t like he had anything better to do anyway. The night was clear and cool, and after a couple wrong turns, he pulled up along a row of townhouses. Sylvain’s was easy to find, and Felix darted up the concrete steps, freshly energetic and alert.

He stopped mid-stride at the sound of a loud curse from the doorway. He looked ahead and a large frame all but blocked the view through the front door. Hair the same shade of Sylvain’s barely showed up in the porch light’s glow, and Felix moved behind the tree in the front yard. Awkward, to approach when Sylvain had someone else over. He’d wait until they were done with the—

“ _ Damnit _ , Sylvain! You don’t understand  _ anything _ ! Guess that’s what comes with being the favorite for so long; you forget what it’s like to need anything.”

“You don’t  _ need  _ what you’re—hey!"

Sylvain’s cut-off half-sentence made Felix peer around the tree. The bigger Gautier—and he was a Gautier, for sure, now that Felix could see his face— had grabbed Sylvain by the front of his shirt and slammed him against the door frame.

Felix could barely make out Sylvain’s expression, but he saw him immediately grab the other man’s wrists.

Felix wondered, should he do something? Leaving family shit alone was one thing, but this guy was  _ huge _ , and clearly not...well, in the time Felix had taken to think about it, Sylvain had broken his brother’s hold and gotten in his face.

“Not. Acceptable.” He peered up into his brother’s face, fully angry, but it melted into something that looked like resignation. “Okay? If you want to talk like a grown-up, you can come in, otherwise I’m calling you a cab.”

“Don’t lecture me.” The bigger Gautier pushed past Sylvain into his house, and Felix heard a small sigh as Sylvain closed the door.

Felix looked down at the wallet clutched in his hand. He thought about whether to drop it off or just….keep it for him, or—

His internal back-and-forth was cut off again by the sound of glass breaking, and he darted up to peer through the window. This was just embarrassing now. He needed to either knock like a normal person, or leave well enough alone. They weren’t at each other's throats again from what he could see; Sylvain wasn’t even in the room. Felix ducked down again to think. Why was he so indecisive?

When he peeked back up, Sylvain was sweeping something into a dustpan. He left again, and returned to drape a blanket over a motionless figure on his couch.

Knocking now would feel like an intrusion. Felix moved quickly down the walk, left Sylvain’s wallet in his mailbox, and waited a couple of hours to text him to tell him where it was. It was awkward; the whole thing was awkward; but it was better than inserting himself where he didn’t belong, he told himself.

Felix was exhausted, and happy to get home and head for sleep; to not think about broken glass, or arguments, or brothers, for a good long while.

No brothers were in sight, but that night found Felix trudging through the snow, following blood trails under a cold, dark sky. Yelling until his voice was hoarse, though he couldn’t have said why when he woke up. Probably whatever garbage he’d been watching on TV.


	9. i don't belong to anyone

“So are you two still ‘fighting?’” Lorenz’s tone was smooth but amused.

“You’re seriously gonna ask me that? Given your own nonsense with von Riegan?” Sylvain scoffed. Lorenz was uptight, and ridiculous, and squabbled just as much with Claude as Sylvain did with Felix, if not more.

But the producers had decided to paint  _ those _ two as a rich-kid-poor-kid story, highlighting Lorenz’s privileged past and family in the skating world. The well-edited video clips tried to contrast it with Claude’s struggle to find a home in a hockey league. (The set pieces conveniently glossed over the fact that Claude’s family were filthy rich technology magnates, but Sylvain figured he’d been naive to think there was any “reality” to reality TV at all.)

“You know, Lorenz, you’re really…” Sylvain’s voice trailed off as Felix glided by.

“Cat got your tongue, Gautier?” Lorenz was altogether too smug, and Sylvain would have said something back if it wasn’t— if it wasn’t for….

Felix. Straight legs, feet turned out, torso bent back at what should have been an impossible angle, arms flung wide. His shirt was loose and rippled slightly as he coasted, making the move look effortless. He was ethereal. Breathtaking. Gorgeous.

“Beautiful,” Sylvain whispered to himself. He didn’t even hear Lorenz’s mocking snort; he was too busy vaulting over the boards in a motion so practiced it was instinct.

Without thinking, he skated over to Felix with powerful strides and matched his pace. He put one hand under Felix’s back and the other—well, Sylvain tried not to think about the firm muscles clenched under his other hand.

Felix growled without breaking position. “Ass. Put me down.”

Sylvain looked up. “This looks  _ good _ , Felix. Go with it.”

“No.”

Sylvain laughed, still a little dazed. “Okay.” He set Felix down gently, watching him skate away, out of Sylvain’s hands. He flexed his fingers a little, watching him go.

From the bleachers, a slow clap echoed. Sylvain turned his head and caught sight of Lysithea.

Felix glowered. “Traitor.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. “If I thought you could behave yourselves enough to pull that off safely, I’d put it in your routine.”

“That’s ridic—”

Lysithea cut Felix off with a raise of pale eyebrows under sharp-cut white bangs. “He’s right; it looked good.”

Felix let out a heavy, disgruntled sigh and pushed his way out of the arena, past all the cameras. He’d negotiated lunch with a friend, no recording allowed, and Ashe had already texted him from the parking lot.

He shut the passenger door into Ashe’s rusty old Camry with a sigh of relief.

“It’s good to see you, too,” Ashe laughed. “Steak burrito?”

It was exactly the way Felix liked it, just meat and rice and tons of hot sauce, no cheese, no veggies. The smell was tantalizing, and he realized how much he’d missed getting to do things like wander around to food trucks.

“Thanks,” he mumbled around a large mouthful. “Sorry to eat in your car, but they are giving me like, twenty minutes and then I have to be back.”

Ashe handed him some napkins and then dug into his own burrito. “I don’t mind. It’s good to see you, Felix. And I go a little crazy if it’s just me and the screen all day; I’m happy to have a break and see you.”

They munched noisily for a few minutes before Ashe flicked on the radio. A pop song faded out to a commercial break: first a local ad for an auto dealership, and then the station’s own promo, following a short music lead-in. There were voices from a few professional athletes, talking about something or other that Felix wasn’t paying attention to, until one cut in that was all too familiar.

_ Hi. I'm Sylvain Gautier, I played for the Faerghus Lions, and I'm bisexual. I'm proud to be who I am, and you should be too. Hockey is for all of us. _

The voice switched, and suddenly it sounded like a more traditional announcer.  _ The Fódlan Hockey League is a proud partner of the All of Us campaign, which works to ensure the safety and inclusion of LGBTQ+ athletes, coaches, and fans in professional sports. Find out more at— _

Felix switched off the radio.

“So, how’s it going?” Ashe dug out a packet of hot sauce and looked at him sideways.

“‘S’fine.” He shrugged.

“How’s your partner?”

“I’m not taking him to Nationals next year, if that’s what you’re asking.” Felix couldn’t help the smallest smile at his own joke.

“Are the two of you really fighting as much as they say?”

“Who’s ‘they?’”

“Oh, you know, the clips they show on TV, the social media buzz…”

“Nah, not really. He’s stupid about figure skating but solid skating skills in general. He’s smart. Catches on quick. Strong. Hard worker.”

Ashe’s eyebrows shot up. That last one was true praise indeed, coming from Felix. “And, if I may be so bold, hot as fuck.”

Felix coughed and he took a sip of soda. “Says you and half of Fodlan, apparently.”

“Including you?”

“Enough.” Felix started stuffing the trash into a bag. “I have to get back.”

“Aw, come on, Felix. I’m not trying to pry, but...you haven’t dated anyone since Annie.”

“So?”

“So, he’s cute and he likes you. Isn’t that enough?”

“No. What? What are you talking about, he likes me? He likes everyone; he’s a shameless flirt and it’s ridiculous and distracting.”

“I told you I watch every single week, Felix. He likes you.”

“Whatever. Thanks for lunch, Ashe.”

“Go get ‘em, Felix.”

Felix waved politely at Ashe as he drove away, but he stalked back inside, disgruntled.

As usual, Sylvain was fucking around, leaning on the boards and pulling his dumb flirting act with one of the crew. Felix stomped over to him to sit down and put on his skates.

“Maybe if you practiced instead of running your mouth, we’d have that middle sequence down by now.”

“Slow down, mister ‘isn’t even on the ice yet.’” Sylvain tried to tease him, but it just rankled.

“Yeah, well, maybe you need more practice than I do. Screwing around instead of practicing is a fantastic way to get yourself injured, if that’s what you’re going for.”

_ Shit _ .

The moment the words were out of Felix’s mouth, he regretted them.

“Why are you like this? Whether you view this as fun, or a job, there’s no reason to make it so fucking miserable. Lighten up.” The flippant tone of the words was betrayed by the angry glint in Sylvain’s eyes; usually a warm and teasing chestnut color, they glared at Felix. Hm. He’d finally gotten to him.

Felix pushed aside the feeling of regret. He should be happy that he’d finally pulled some sincere emotion out of this shallow charmer. Maybe Sylvain could go and be an actor too.

“Look, just settle down and do the work, ok?” Felix tried to defuse the situation, despite knowing he’d created it.

“We’re supposed to be fighting, right? So  _ that _ ’ll look really good tomorrow.” Sylvain’s tone was sardonic and bitter as he gestured at the cameras that hounded them constantly.

It spurred Felix to say more things he shouldn’t. “You know what? While we’re at it? You shouldn’t waste kindness on people who don’t deserve it.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Forget it.” Felix had already said too much; he definitely didn’t want Sylvain to somehow find out he’d been spying like a creep. So he just clammed up and started running through their moves.

They were both too pissed to have a good work session. And yet, when their legs got tangled and they crashed to the ice for the thousandth time, again, Sylvain deftly angled himself between Felix and the ice, trying to cushion the blow. It seemed like it was on purpose. He looked up to say “thanks,” but Sylvain was already digging his skates in and pushing away from Felix toward the boards.

“Maybe tomorrow I can skate with someone who isn’t being a complete asshole. You let me know if that guy decides to show up, okay?”

Felix stopped by Grind House and ordered his americano, as usual. He was surprised that the usual, perky, green-haired barista wasn’t here. She was always here. Maybe she was sick.

He nodded brusquely at the guy taking his order, his thoughts still mostly focused on being pissed at Sylvain for being—the way that he was.

“Where’s Flayn?”

“Oh, she’s gone! Got a scholarship to a music conservatory; it’s so wonderful.” Felix didn’t know this guy, but he was beaming, clearly very excited for his friend.

“She’s worked here for like…”

“Four years, I know! I’m so happy for her! On to bigger and better things.” The guy wrote Felix’s name on the cup and smiled at him, but Felix just made a pained face in response.

“Thanks.”

He gripped the cup the rest of the way back to his apartment.  _ Could shit just, like… stop changing? For one second, please? _ He was sick of the breakneck period of his life lately, and he knew it was silly to care about something small like this, but it sat under his skin and rankled. Even the walk home and the warm coffee didn’t settle him.

It took a half-hour run, feet pounding the pavement and a light drizzle sticking his hair to his face, for Felix to figure it out. Nothing was going to wait for him; the world would just keep moving. If Felix wanted something, he was going to have to try.


	10. collide the spaces that divide us

Sylvain heard a commotion from all the way down the ice, and paused his warm-up to see what was going on. As he slowly skated over, he saw a slight, silver-haired man and heard him say that he had a pair of gloves that were Felix’s. Unfortunately, the production assistants had gotten hold of him. Sylvain felt bad for the guy as they surrounded him, trying to coach him to say certain things, put a mic on him—basically treat him the same way everyone was treated on this show.

For once, Felix’s temper paid off. He shoved his way through the crew, hissing and snarling, and ordered them all out. “Get out of his face! What are you doing?” His friend looked like a deer in the headlights.

The most senior one folded her arms and tried to stare Felix down. “You signed up for it. Not sure why you’re complaining about it now.”

“Yeah, I sure did, and it sure was stupid. But he didn’t sign up for shit. Leave him alone.”

The sheer fury rolling off him made the show crew back off, and Felix’s friend gave him a look of gratitude as he darted away, but not before he gave Sylvain a friendly little wave.

Felix lifted his head and caught Sylvain’s eye for the briefest moment, and Sylvain gave him a small nod of respect before getting back to it.

When Felix finally joined him, all Sylvain said was, “You’re late today.”

“I’ll make up for it. Try to keep up, will you?”

His tone was so unexpectedly warm that Sylvain’s head shot up, and the look on Felix’s face was...kind of unreadable, actually. But for some reason it made warmth spill out of his chest and his lips curve in a smile. “You’re not gonna know what hit you. Let’s do this.”

The routine was going great, and had gone from a choppy sequence of moves sewn together into an actual seamless flow. Felix stopped, and Sylvain thought he was going to take a break, but instead he turned to face him in an effortless little glide.

“So, hey. That lift you tried doing earlier, the one that uh,” he stopped for a moment, fishing for words.

“The one you yelled at me for?” Sylvain nearly pouted, which drew a smile.

“Yeah, the one Lysithea said wasn’t safe. Look, I know why.”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s because I’m a rank amateur, and I lack your years of experience in the art of grabbing and holding humans.” Sylvain grew thoughtful for a moment. “Though, come to think of it, I may actually have more relevant experience than you think…”

“Will you please shut up? You’re awful sometimes.” Felix took a breath. “No. It was— because of me. I didn’t trust you to do it, and it made everything all off balance. It would be fine if—look, let’s just try it the right way, okay? Not to do on Friday night or anything. Just, you should know how it’s really done.”

“And it’d be fun, wouldn’t it?” The mischievous glint in Sylvain’s eyes was impossible to resist.

Felix did his best by skating to center ice, only looking back over his shoulder when he arrived. “Maybe.”

Sylvain grabbed Felix’s hand to start, and Felix stopped him, changing the way their hands were clasped just slightly.

“That grip you used isn’t for lifts. Try this one.”

He was right. They were able to play their strength against one another and push off easily from the ice. Sylvain let out a gleeful laugh once Felilx was up, and Felix— well, he didn’t hiss like a pissed-off cat this time, so Sylvain figured he was winning.

They tried it a couple more times, and it  _ was  _ fun _. _ Felix even talked him through spinning in a tight circle with Felix lifted overhead, and the elation of pulling that off was amazing. Sylvain hadn’t felt this good on the ice in a long time.

They returned to practicing the usual, and Sylvain caught Felix’s eye.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

They left it at that, despite Sylvain feeling like there was a lot they still hadn’t said to each other.

Their costumes for the final competition night sent Sylvain reeling, for reasons he couldn’t really explain. They were similar but not identical, old-fashioned military-style uniforms, mostly black with gold buttons. There was all this gold detailing, and he blinked a couple of times.

It was probably just how flattering they were. Felix had long white shirtsleeves and a tailored black vest, which showed off his slim waist, and Sylvain knew firsthand how pretty those sleeves would look with Felix’s fluid movements. He looked dignified, and Sylvain felt a pang for a moment, realizing that the competition would be over after tonight. They’d made it to the last three pairs, so they’d either be going home winners, or just vaguely-not-famous reality TV stars.

Either way, the time had gone too quickly.

“You look good, Fe.” Sylvain winced as the nickname spilled out; they’d been getting along better but that was a little much. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay.” Felix’s voice was soft and thoughtful, and Sylvain caught him running his finger over one of the gold-embroidered designs along Sylvain’s shoulder.

Something passed in the air between them, and Sylvain’s lips parted just slightly as Felix looked up at him. Their eyes caught for a long moment, and Sylvain felt them move closer.

The bang of the dressing room door startled them apart, and the production assistant barked at them without even looking up from her clipboard.

“Five minutes till live; you’re late.”

They hurried behind her without looking at each other.

The footage that evening was even “better”—they’d taken Felix’s little tirade at the show crew for bothering Ashe and cut it so it looked like he was still royally pissed at Sylvain. And their own blowout, of course, fed the narrative perfectly, unaltered.

This time it was Sylvain’s turn to bounce a leg anxiously as they waited for their turn.

Felix titled his head and gave him a little conspiratorial look, and then they were on.

The lights all turned off, and then one bright white spotlight sliced through the velvety dark. It illuminated Felix from above, and Sylvain would have skated toward him, would have followed his movements as he opened his arm, even if it hadn’t been part of the routine.

They were good; really good. They fell into a groove, matching each other’s movements and pulling themselves across the ice with similar strong strides. The light glittered off their costumes, and the classical, medieval-style music seemed more stirring than usual.

Sylvain skated ahead of Felix and reached out a hand, as planned. The usual move was for Felix to take it and close the gap in a dance-like grip.

But he caught up, and changed his grip.

The smile he gave Sylvain was positively devilish, and Sylvain answered it with a massive grin and a powerful push upward. Neither one of them really cared that they’d been told not to do it.

Sylvain knew he’d think about holding Felix in his hands for a long time. He was perfect, a sleek curve overhead, strong and supple and gorgeous. He looked up quickly, memorizing the moment, bathed in the bright white spotlight.

It only took them half a beat to pick up the routine again once Felix’s skates hit ice, and as it ended in a spin the crowd started cheering wildly.

The cheers grew to deafening when Felix grabbed Sylvain by the jacket with both fists and crashed their mouths together. Sylvain took less than half a second to adjust, and then wrapped Felix in a longer, warmer kiss, as the crowd lost its shit.

They could have been alone in the woods for all Sylvain cared about them. Felix kissed him deliberately, definitively, assertively. It made sparks run up his skin and reminded him that anything was possible. It was not nearly long enough.

They pulled apart, and let out a breathy laugh as one. It was almost impossible to hear, and Sylvain used it as an excuse to press their foreheads together.

“Why didn’t you say something?’ That’s it; there was going to be no stopping the smile from here on out. It spread across his face and refused to leave.

Felix attempted to scowl and failed, clearly in a similar state. He folded his arms. “That was me. Saying something.”

“Think we won?”

“We’re disqualified for pulling that move, unless Lysithea decides not to tell on us.”

It was time to leave the ice, not to linger. Time to find out who won and who lost, and Sylvain wasn’t sure if he’d thought that was important at all twenty minutes ago, but he certainly didn’t now.

Sylvain held the door off the ice open for Felix. “Which one?” He knew there was a rakish, satisfied look on his face, but he couldn’t help it.

The sound of Felix’s “Shut up” was better than a goal horn.

“Did you know your last routine would go so well?”

“How did you get past all your arguments? Did you end up with any injuries?”

“Do you plan to keep in touch with the other contestants? Which ones? Have the show runners talked to you about guest spots? Are you considering a skating career?”

The questions kept coming, and coming, and Felix was still picking confetti out of his hair and working on tamping down the weird false elation all this build-up had created. Winning was nice, but it’s not like it was that much money, or like a permanent job anywhere or—

“Are you together, or was that part of the choreography?”

Felix looked over to see Sylvain’s mouth drop open, and he darted a glance over to him. Felix reached for Sylvain’s hand and then obviously, deliberately, changed his grip.  _ I trust you. _

Sylvain rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. "Haha, well, lucky me that I think I might have a chance with this guy, but that's private, yeah?"

The hand in Felix’s squeezed his own, lightly. It wasn’t just their win, and the joy wasn’t fake.

They’d found each other, and no matter what happened next, they weren’t letting go.


End file.
